I came to the work with finality as I acquired a profoundly debilitating neurological disease. There were years between, though I experienced little of them, before I discovered barest inclination, though I had begun the work, in some small manner, by then, and years more before I realized it a debilitating compulsion, for it interferes with the mere management of the affliction. I will die sooner than others with the same.

I have hope that as much as it satisfies me to build the work, someone, somewhere, will find it a compelling read, worthy of analysis.

Although in better states, "on good days," as some would have it, I have developed objective and abstract works, such states are rare, and fleeting. This type of work is outside my interest, and far outside my ability at any other time.

I'm satisfied by the process. I have occasioned interest in the work that results. But the reason I work, that reason I'm compelled to work, eludes me.

My name is common and of little interest. uanac is what I will be called.